Pride
by Dear Norma Jean
Summary: "Because maybe before it was easy to tell Ian to fuck off, but Mickey had fucking missed him. Missed him more than he would ever admit to outside of these stolen moments." The scene in the bedroom from 4x08; mostly porn, partly feelings.


As a general rule, Mickey likes to refrain from sucking dick.

_Nothing_ makes Mickey feel like more of a fag than sucking dick. He didn't think it would even be a big deal if Ian didn't blow _him_ so damn much. Not that he doesn't like having his dick sucked, but it didn't take long for Ian to get pissy that he rarely returned the favor.

Said pissiness was the reason he finds himself on his knees now that Ian's back.

He'd known that Ian hadn't just been annoyed at not getting head, it didn't take a genius to figure out it was the idea of Mickey not wanting to _give_ head that pissed the redhead off. Now, Mickey admits (to himself at least) that it was stupid to feel like giving a blowjob was so much gayer than recieving one. Or taking it in the ass, even then Mickey had had to admit it didn't get much gayer than gleefully bending over and taking it.

Before Ian left, Mickey had gone out of his way to avoid making a habit of blowing him.

Because maybe before it was easy to tell Ian to fuck off, but Mickey had fucking _missed _him. Missed him more than he would ever admit to outside of these stolen moments. So if it means making Ian stay, Mickey can swallow his fucking pride and swallow some fucking dick.

That's how Mickey finds himself, hard in his pants already, blowing Ian like his life depends on it.

And, if he's being honest, it's not that bad. Dick doesn't even come close to being the worst thing he's ever tasted, and the weight of Ian on his tongue curls _something_ in his guts that makes his dick twitch when he focuses on it. He wants to bring a hand down to his own pants —unzip or even just adjust himself—but he has one hand pumping Ian below where Mickey's mouth can stretch, and the other clenched on the bedspread to ground him.

So Mickey just focuses on what he's doing, because the sooner it's over, the sooner he can shove a hand down his jeans to finish himself off.

The weird thing is though, the longer it goes on, the less eager he is for it to _be_ over. Yeah, the ache in his jaw burns a little too presently, but the feeling of Ian's heartbeat on his tongue, the stuttering hitch of his breath when Mickey pulls back to suck on the head, the way hearing his name groaned out between pants and curses, "_Mick," _drives him crazy.

"Fuck," Ian breathes, hands flexing in Mickey's hair, "it's not so fucking hard, is it?"

"I don't know," Mickey says as he pulls off, stroking Ian leisurely, "feels pretty fucking hard to me," his eyebrows move suggestively.

Ian groans and Mickey isn't entirely sure if it's the terrible joke or the fact that Mickey is licking the dribble of fluid from where it had wound down his head. The taste isn't good, not by a long shot, but the bitter flavor spreading over his tongue inspires a sympathetic leak of precum from his own dick in a way that makes the bitter taste the opposite of a problem.

He takes his time now, sucking Ian in slowly, savoring the feel of every inch sliding against his tongue and _Jesus fucking Christ _this is the gayest thing he's ever done. He moans a little and Ian's hips twitch. The small slip in Ian's control is hot enough that Mickey tries it again, feeling his own dick twitch as Ian's pushes just a little to far back.

It's not like Mickey had intended to phone it in, he was smart enough to know Ian would be pissed if he half assed this, but he never thought he'd actually get off on it. He is, though. With the threat of gagging and the feel of Ian hard and leaking in his mouth, hand flexing in his hair as he bobs, Mickey finds himself ridiculously close to shooting in his pants. He's been avoiding eye contact since this this started, somehow that made it seem less what it was, but he chances a look up now and he really should have done that sooner because it's fucking _glorious_ to see the man above him fall apart. Ian's head is tilted up, brow furrowed, eyes half-open, mouth parted as he pants. Mickey groans at the sight, too turned on to be ashamed of getting off on this. Ian's eyes flick lazily down at the sound, hand flexing where it rests.

Mickey comes as soon as their eyes meet.

Ian les out a soft, "ah" as the throat around him shudders through a groan, the sensation bringing him off as well. Mickey swallows, pulling off a bit to early to feel the last few drops of come spatter across his lips before he rests his head against Ian's still-clothed thigh, panting.

After a breath, "Did you really-"

"Fuck you," mumbled into a hipbone. He feels the hand return to his hair, carding softly, and he doesn't need to look up to know Ian's beaming at him.


End file.
